music to make: 
     Up their branches the little birds billed: 
     Chirrup, drone, bleat and buzz ringed the lake. 
     O shining in sunlight, chief
     After water and water’s caress,
     Was the young bronze-orange leaf,
     That clung to the tree as a tress,
     Shooting lucid tendrils to wed
     With the vine-hook tree or pole,
     Like Arachne launched out on her thread. 
     Then the maiden her dusky stole
     In the span of the black-starred zone,
     Gathered up for her footing fleet. 
     As one that had toil of her own
     She followed the lines of wheat
     Tripping straight through the fields, green blades,
     To the groves of olive grey,
     Downy-grey, golden-tinged:  and to glades
     Where the pear-blossom thickens the spray
     In a night, like the snow-packed storm: 
     Pear, apple, almond, plum: 
     Not wintry now:  pushing, warm! 
     And she touched them with finger and thumb,
     As the vine-hook closes:  she smiled,
     Recounting again and again,
     Corn, wine, fruit, oil! like a child,
     With the meaning known to men. 
     For hours in the track of the plough
     And the pruning-knife she stepped,
     And of how the seed works, and of how
     Yields the soil, she seemed adept. 
     Then she murmured that name of the dearth,
     The Beneficent, Hers, who bade
     Our husbandmen sow for the birth
     Of the grain making earth full glad. 
     She murmured that Other’s:  the dirge
     Of life-light:  for whose dark lap
     Our locks are clipped on the verge
     Of the realm where runs no sap. 
     She said:  We have looked on both! 
     And her eyes had a wavering beam
     Of various lights, like the froth
     Of the storm-swollen ravine stream
     In flame of the bolt.  What links
     Were these which had made him her friend? 
     He eyed her, as one who drinks,
     And would drink to the end.

     VII

     Now the meadows with crocus besprent,
     And the asphodel woodsides she left,
     And the lake-slopes, the ravishing scent
     Of narcissus, dark-sweet, for the cleft
     That tutors the torrent-brook,
     Delaying its forceful spleen
     With many a wind and crook
     Through rock to the broad ravine. 
     By the hyacinth-bells in the brakes,
     And the shade-loved white windflower, half hid,
     And the sun-loving lizards and snakes
     On the cleft’s barren ledges, that slid
     Out of sight, smooth as waterdrops, all,
     At a snap of twig or bark
     In the track of the foreign foot-fall,
     She climbed to the pineforest dark,
     Overbrowing an emerald chine
     Of the grass-billows.  Thence, as a wreath,
     Running poplar and cypress to pine,
     The lake-banks are seen,